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eddiewmunson · 1 year

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saw this prompt @newgrangespirals @steddieas-shegoes; needed to write it but also i kind of derailed it bc my brain has a mind of its own and its focus is steddie so i apologize also on ao3

He’s met with silence.

Eddie supposes Murray Bauman must only ever be met with silence after speaking; he doesn’t seem the type of man to hold an easy, casual conversation. Especially now.

Even Argyle is silent, his fork stalled on its way to his mouth as he looks from Murray to Jonathan, whose face is red, then Nancy, who’s equally flushed.

Eddie looks at the table, his vision blurring. His hands are shaking.

“Murray,” Joyce says in a lethally calm voice. Eddie had forgotten she was here. “Go.”

“What do you mean, go?” Murray says, his voice quieter like he’s starting to sense what he’s just done. “We’re in—“

“Murray,” Joyce snaps. Eddie flinches. His fingers are knotting with the hem of the tablecloth, his food uneaten on his plate. “Go. I will deal with you later.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Murray’s chair scrapes across the uneven tile floor, and his footsteps retreat. And then there’s silence again. Tense, tense silence.

“Steve,” Nancy says quietly, and Eddie looks up at her, glaring even though she hasn’t done anything to him. Jonathan looks at her too, anxious. Joyce sips her water, her hand shaking, and Hopper has his head down, his face hidden in his hands.

“I’m good,” Steve says shortly, and Eddie looks at him, his stomach flipping. Steve is smiling a little, but it’s an awful smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He pushes his plate away with a breath like he feels just as sick as Eddie does, and he nods, but he doesn’t look like he’s really here. “I’m…”

“Steve, it— it wasn’t—“

“You told him my name,” Steve snaps, looking at her across the table, his eyes wide. Nancy looks like she’s going to start crying, and Eddie finds that he really doesn’t care if she does. “And you still…”

He laughs. Dryly, humourlessly. Eddie feels like he might throw up.

Steve closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does when he feels a migraine coming on, and he laughs again.

“Steve—“ Jonathan tries to say, but Steve just holds his hands up, shaking his head.

“I’m just…”

He pushes his plate farther away, moving his chair back with a loud scrape, and then he’s leaving too, going upstairs. Eddie watches him go, watches Robin get up to follow him before she deflates, seeing the way Steve gestures for her to stay, to leave him alone. Robin’s hands are shaking, and Eddie can practically feel the anger radiating from her.

The silence is back after a door slams upstairs.

Joyce sets her glass down loudly, and she puts her hands flat on the table next to her plate, taking a deep, shaky breath. Hopper says her name softly, but she holds a hand up, shushing him.

“I have never…” she starts slowly, her voice shaking with anger. “I have never been more disappointed in my life.”

“Mom—”

“Jonathan,” Joyce snaps, fixing a look on him, and he falls quiet. “…I did not raise you to be the other man. And Nancy, I…” She puts her hands on the table again, taking a measured breath before she looks at Nancy. “I am not your mother, but I think I am well within my rights to say I’m disappointed in you, too.”

“Ms Byers—”

“I don’t want to hear a word out of either of you,” Joyce says calmly before she touches her face, rubbing her chin anxiously as she stares at her plate in front of her. Nobody is eating anymore. Eddie still feels sick, but he also feels like he’s blended into the wall, like everybody’s forgotten that he’s here at all. He looks at the table, at the fraying tablecloth that’s clutched in his fingers.

“Unbelievable,” Joyce mutters to herself. “I can’t…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Nancy takes a shuddering breath. She might be crying.

“Eddie, dude.”

Eddie looks up, his eyes meeting Argyle’s. He’s looking over at Eddie anxiously, his head tilted a little bit, and as they look at each other, the others look at Eddie too. And suddenly he isn’t in the wall, but he’s the centrepiece of the table, the showstopper, the freak.

It’s like they all remember what Murray said at the same time.

“Eddie,” Joyce says, her voice softer than it was a moment ago. Kinder. Eddie looks at her. “Honey, if… if it is true. None of us have any problem with it.”

If it is true.

They all know it is. Eddie can tell just by looking at them that they all know.

He feels so… small. Like he’s fifteen again. Like he’s new in high school, like he’s walking down the hallway and feeling all the stares, the eyes and eyes and eyes looking, watching, analysing, judging. Even though Joyce’s gaze is kind, and Hopper gives him a slight nod when their eyes meet.

Eddie’s chest feels so tight he can’t breathe, each breath shallow and weak, and he’s kind of lightheaded, and he feels fucking nauseous.

“I, uhm.” He clears his throat, his stomach churning, and he untangled his fingers from the tablecloth, taking a sharp breath. “Excuse me,” he says quickly, breathlessly, moving his chair back so fast it tips on the uneven tiles. He feels like he might pass out as he goes upstairs, hearing Argyle say something quietly behind him.

Upstairs feels even quiet than downstairs. Like every room could have an echo.

Eddie finds a room that’s empty except for some cardboard boxes, and he shuts the door behind himself before he goes to the opposite side of the room, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to the wall. It’s cold.

He’s breathing too fast, and his head feels light, like if his eyes were open his vision would be dark. He wraps his arms around himself tightly, squeezing as he exhales until he wheezes, until there’s nothing in his lungs, and then he inhales as slowly as he can. In, in, in, until he can’t anymore. He holds it. Exhales. Does it all over again.

Until he can breathe without suffocating.

He turns to rest his back on the wall, and he slides down to the floor, closing his eyes and pulling his knees to his chest, exhaling shakily.

He’s never felt like this before.

He feels so… lonely.

He feels almost cold, even though sunlight is streaming through the window, beams of golden light glowing across the floor.

He cries. Even though he tries not to. He can’t help it, and the tears are absorbed by the sleeves of his hoodie.

Steve’s hoodie. Eddie hates that he’s wearing it, even though Steve brought it just for him. Even though Steve specifically made sure he brought a black one, even though it smells like Steve. Eddie hates that Murray noticed that it’s Steve’s.

He stays there for a while. Until the sunlight dims.

He only lifts his head when the door breaks open, and Steve’s voice says, “Eddie?”

Eddie stands quickly, wiping his face and sniffling as Steve finds him and shuts the door behind himself.

“Hey,” Eddie says, his voice wavering. “You okay?”

Steve nods. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, but his eyes are shining blankly. And Eddie aches.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really have to. Steve blinks at him, hesitating.

“I kind of already knew,” he says like it’s a question. “I just…” He exhales, swallowing, and Eddie knows he’s talking about Nancy and Jonathan. It. “I, like, convinced myself I didn’t care? That it— it didn’t matter?”

Eddie listens, leaning against the wall, watching Steve push his hair back anxiously.

“I mean— the world was ending, who gives a shit if— if I get cheated on? It’s so fucking stupid.” He doesn’t seem to realize he’s even talking to Eddie. He’s just talking. Saying what he didn’t say downstairs. “But I’m so… Jesus. Hearing it out loud, like— like Murray was fucking proud, like it was funny, I’m just… I don’t know.”

Steve deflates, leaning against the door, looking at Eddie, and his eyes are shining.

“Embarrassed?”

“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about, Steve,” Eddie says softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“...I trusted them,” Steve says quietly, weakly.

“You trusted them,” Eddie repeats. “What they did is their fault, Steve, you didn’t do anything wrong. Trusting them wasn’t wrong,” he adds adamantly, watching the way Steve’s eyes shine. “You thought they were— they were trustworthy. You didn’t know they’d do something like that.”

Steve sniffs, looking at the floor. His cheeks are flushed, and Eddie hates himself for thinking he looks beautiful.

“You have every right to feel hurt,” Eddie says gently. Steve looks at him. He swallows. “And to feel angry.”

“What about you?” Steve asks quietly after a moment. Eddie blinks.

“What about me?”

Steve looks at him. His eyes flick back and forth between Eddie’s for a moment, intent and searching before he speaks. His voice is so soft. Kind.

“He just outed you in front of all of us,” he says quietly. “You’re not angry?”

Eddie blinks again.

Steve looks at him so kindly. Eddie likes being looked at like this. Like Steve is listening to him even though he isn’t speaking. And Eddie realizes that Steve just knows, that he doesn’t question it. That he knows how Eddie is feeling, but is waiting for him to say it himself.

Eddie’s lip quivers, and he feels like a child again.

“I…” He hesitates, taking a breath as a wave of nausea washes over him again. Steve just looks at him. “I’ve never come out to anyone,” he says weakly. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “I’ve never gotten the chance to. My— My dad found some zines in my room when I was fourteen, and I didn’t… I didn’t have to say anything.” His voice is shaking. He’s never told anyone about this, not even Jeff. “The only time I ever heard that man say anything about God was when he was trying to beat the queer out of me,” he says, laughing the way Steve laughed downstairs. Humorless. Almost hysterical. “And he— he called Wayne to tell him everything because he…”

Eddie trails off, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“I told myself no one would ever know when Wayne took me in, but I swear it was like overnight, the whole town knew,” he chokes. “Because of— of my hair, or my clothes, or— or because people associate queerness with evil and— and Satanism, I don’t fucking know, but everyone knew and I…”

He covers his face, his face hot with embarrassment as a sob escapes him, and it feels so stupid to be so upset right now, but Steve just waits patiently, listening and looking at him.

“People keep taking it,” Eddie chokes, his face wet with tears now, looking at Steve desperately. “It’s mine, and people keep taking it from me.”

Steve nods.

And then he’s coming close and wrapping his arms around Eddie, and Eddie is crying into his shoulder, his hands clutching at Steve’s shirt the way they clutched at the tablecloth earlier, his fingers gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles ache. He’s shaking. But Steve’s hands feel steady as they run over his back, and Eddie wants to die.

Because Murray told them to have sex. And Steve is still here, holding Eddie while he cries, even though he knows Eddie is gay, even though Murray told the whole table that Eddie likes Steve, that it’s so painfully obvious that he likes Steve. That he’s pining, yearning.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into Steve’s neck, his shoulders shaking as he sobs, and Steve moves a hand to hold the back of his head, his fingers pressing into Eddie’s curls to cradle his skull. And it’s almost fucking tender, and Eddie doesn’t know how he got here. Or where he’s going to go.

Steve is murmuring to him. Quiet I got yous and It’s okays, his voice breathy and soft in Eddie’s ear. Eddie melts against him, and Steve holds him tightly, swaying with him, rubbing his back and scratching his fingertips over his scalp carefully the way he does when Eddie has nightmares.

Eddie whines into his neck, choking on his breath, and Steve’s arm tightens around his waist like he’s preparing to catch Eddie if he falls.

“I know,” he whispers softly. “It’s not fair.”

Eddie shakes his head.

It’s not fair.

It’s fucking bullshit.

The whole world thinks it knows him better than he knows himself. Even if they’re fucking right. It’s not fair. He’s never gotten to speak for himself, never gotten to really introduce himself.

He aches when he finally stops crying, his fingers relaxing but still holding Steve’s shirt loosely, and his hands are sore. Steve runs his hand through Eddie’s hair. He waits, holding Eddie close even though he isn’t crying anymore, touching him gently, kindly, as Eddie catches his breath.

“You know what I’m angriest at?” Eddie asks softly after a few moments, his voice weak and breaking from his crying. Steve touches his head again.

“What?” Steve whispers.

“...He’s fucking right.”

Steve is quiet. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut as they burn again.

And then Steve is shifting, holding the back of Eddie’s head, and Eddie blinks his eyes open to look at him. Steve looks into his eyes intently, and it’s almost too much, but Eddie can’t look away, his hands tightening on Steve’s shirt.

“About everything?” he whispers softly. Tentatively.

Eddie looks back and forth between his eyes, and he nods.

He feels sick again. He can’t breathe.

Steve’s hand moves to Eddie’s face, and he’s so fucking warm. His thumb brushes over Eddie’s cheek so lightly Eddie can barely feel it. And Steve’s face relaxes, like he’s deflating, as he touches Eddie’s face, as his other hand presses into the small of his back.

“I really fucking hate him,” Steve breathes. His eyes flicker across Eddie’s face, and they linger on Eddie’s mouth. Eddie whispers his name. Steve hesitates, stammering silently for a moment before, “Can you say it?”

Eddie steps back a little, and their hands fall even though they’re still close enough for Eddie to see the green in his eyes.

“...Say what?” he asks hesitantly. Steve looks at him, his eyes shining, and he looks so desperate suddenly.

“Everything,” he says breathlessly. “I wanna hear it from you.”

Eddie’s eyes fill with tears, but Steve looks like he’s begging, and Eddie is weak.

“I’m gay,” he says softly, whispering like he’s worried someone outside might hear. “And I…” He takes a breath. Steve’s eyes look back and forth between Eddie’s like he’s looking for it. “I have, like… a huge fucking crush on you.”

Steve’s eyes drop to Eddie’s mouth like he’s watching his lips form the words. Eddie is trembling. Steve suddenly feels like he’s across the room, like he’s far away even though they’re standing so close.

“I might fucking be in love with you, Steve, I…”

He chokes on his breath, and Steve is touching him again, reaching for his face and wiping away his tears carefully, stepping closer. Eddie’s hands find his waist, and he grips his shirt again.

Steve says his name.

It always sounds so nice in his mouth.

“You don��t– You don’t have to,” Eddie says, trying to tear himself away, closing his eyes as Steve holds his face and wipes his tears. “I know, it’s…”

“Eddie,” Steve whispers, his hands tightening on Eddie’s cheeks, and he’s so close now, their noses almost brushing. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Eddie’s eyes widen. He leans back to see Steve clearly, and Steve looks so nervous that Eddie aches.

“Really?” Eddie asks weakly.

“I…” Steve pauses, brushing his thumbs over Eddie’s cheeks and licking his lips, hesitating. “I might be fucking in love with you too,” he whispers.

Eddie closes his eyes, exhaling as Steve strokes his cheeks again. He gasps for breath when Steve’s forehead touches his, his hands tightening on Steve’s shirt before he slides his hands over his waist gently. He can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” Steve asks again, his breath soft on Eddie’s face.

“Yeah,” he chokes.

Steve’s palms press to Eddie’s cheeks, and Eddie’s hands clutch at Steve’s waist desperately when Steve’s nose nudges his, when their lips brush. He feels like he’s dying.

But Steve kisses him so softly, so sweetly. Holding his face tenderly in his hands and pressing a lingering kiss to his lips before pulling away to look at him, to check, even though Eddie is holding him against himself, even though Eddie’s chin lifts like he’s subconsciously searching for his mouth again.

Eddie’s eyes flutter open, and Steve is smiling at him. It’s such a soft smile, and Eddie forgets everything that’s happened today. Except Steve’s lips on his.

“Please,” he breathes. Begs. Pleads.

Steve kisses him again. One of his hands slides to hold the back of his head again, his fingers threading into Eddie’s curls, and his other shifts down to Eddie’s neck, his fingertips slipping under the hoodie as his thumb brushes over Eddie’s throat so lightly it tickles a little bit. Eddie’s hands press to Steve’s waist and slide to press into the small of his back, and he’s probably wrinkling the fabric of his shirt, but neither of them cares as they tilt their heads, as their lips part.

They pull away to look at each other after a few moments, close enough that they’re sharing breaths as they both breathe hard, as Steve’s fingertips scratch over Eddie’s scalp lightly and Eddie’s eyelids flutter for a second. And then Steve is tilting his head and leaning down to kiss Eddie’s neck, his fingers twisting in his hair to hold him in place, and Eddie is dying, letting out a whimper as his eyes close and his hands reach for Steve’s arms. His fingertips dig into the soft flesh of his upper arms, squeezing as Steve presses a slow kiss under his ear. His mouth is so warm.

Steve kisses him when he lifts his head, and Eddie kisses him back desperately, reaching to wrap his arms around his neck, whining when Steve’s hands find his waist and pull.

Then Steve pushes, reaching up to hold the back of Eddie’s head, and Eddie stumbles back, his fingers tangling in Steve’s hair and tugging when his back hits the wall. Steve’s hand blocks his head from the wall, and Eddie smiles against his mouth, gasping when Steve’s tongue slips across his lip.

“Steve,” he gasps, lightheaded as Steve sucks on his lower lip, as one of his hands slides under the hoodie to touch his skin. His palms are a little rough with calluses, scratching the sensitive scar tissue on Eddie’s waist lightly, and Eddie groans.

Steve pulls away with a gasp, looking at Eddie desperately, frantically, his other hand holding his face. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his lips are shining, and his hair is a mess, and Eddie wantshimwantshimwantshim—

“Do you wanna leave?” Steve asks, his voice rough, and Eddie looks at his mouth, still panting. “I… I don’t wanna see any of them, I just…” He’s breathless too. His hand runs over Eddie’s scarring again almost mindlessly as his thumb brushes his cheek. “Do you wanna go?”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.

Steve smiles softly, his eyes shining at him, and he leans in to kiss him one more time, caressing his cheek. (Caressing. Jesus.) Eddie hums, savouring it before they part with a quiet, slick noise that seems to echo in the empty room.

Eddie feels lightheaded again, but he’s smiling like he’s sleepy as Steve shifts his hands to press his chin up, smiling at how pliant Eddie is. Eddie laughs under his breath, his hands holding Steve’s shoulders.

“I’m so fucking… relieved right now,” Eddie whispers, his head falling to rest on the wall behind him. Steve kisses him again before he pulls him close, hugging him tightly.

Eddie buries his face in Steve’s neck, wrapping his arms around him tightly, wanting to jump up and wrap his legs around his waist, to cling to him like a koala, wanting to climb inside him, to be as close as fucking possible. Steve exhales roughly, pushing a hand into Eddie’s hair.

Steve holds his hand as they leave, ignoring the others that are gathered in the living room, even though they’re clearly waiting for the two of them. Eddie lets the door slam shut behind them. Steve drives. Eddie reaches over and puts a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently as he looks out the windows and watches the world go by.

He’s kind of anxious about this, whatever it is. Anxious that he isn’t what Steve thinks he is, what Steve hopes he is, anxious that he isn’t enough for him.

But he’ll try his best, he knows he will. He’ll bring Steve fucking flowers, he’ll write him fucking poems if it makes him smile. He’ll ravish him the way he deserves, touch him the way he likes, tell him every chance he gets how fucking beautiful he is. He’ll kiss him good morning and learn how to make his coffee just right. He’ll memorize the pattern of his moles and name constellations on his skin.

He’ll remind him every single day, as long as Steve lets him have him, what he deserves.

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eddiewmunson · 1 year

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every once in a while, it randomly hits me that Eddie Munson is canonically missing a nipple after the Demobats attacked him, and I do not know what to do with this information. and Vecna is out there missing both nipples and a d— *gunshot*

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eddiewmunson · 1 year

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ZZzzzZZZzzz...

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eddiewmunson · 1 year

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thinking about autistic eddie munson who doesn't always pick up on innuendos

he's talking really eagerly about guitar, and steve's watching him with a bit of a smirk. he goes, "oh, you must be pretty good with your fingers, then, huh? maybe you should show me later."

and eddie, blissfully oblivious, just lights up and responds with, "you wanna see my technique? i'm really proud of it, it's taken me years to perfect!"

and steve, horny though he is, just wills his dick to soften because he can't bring himself to pop eddie's bubble and risk losing that bright smile. he just nods and says, "yeah! yeah, i'd love to see."

(of course eddie realizes what he means hours after showing steve said finger technique, and lets out a loud, "ohhhh! he wanted me to finger him!" in the middle of the weekly movie night the party has)

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eddiewmunson · 1 year

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There’s a table in the school library that’s nestled in the corner, right by a radiator; Steve has claimed it ever since his double block of ‘private study periods’ began.

Not that he’s planning on doing any studying: it’s the last day of school before the winter break, and while his face has healed up from the whole Billy Hargrove Incident, he still finds himself feeling wiped at random—like his body’s having a delayed adrenaline crash ever since he pulled Dustin out of that freaky vine-infested tunnel.

So really, this spot should be ideal for a couple hours of not having to think.

And it would be perfect, if his eyes weren’t instinctively drawn to movement at the front desk.

Because for the past god-knows-how-long, Eddie Munson has been in a back-and-forth with the librarian.

It had started when he ambled up to the desk with a healthy pile of books in his hands, placed them down neatly, all ready to be stamped. Flashed a charming smile.

Steve was too far away to hear the words, but he got the gist that whatever the librarian had said amounted to no, absolutely not, because Eddie scooped the books back up, dumped them on a table a little distance away from Steve’s, then hemmed and hawed before returning to the desk with a more modest pile than before.

He was sent away again with presumably the same refusal, and so the pattern repeated until this very minute: he’s returning with just one book in his hands, his smile less charming now, more desperate.

But… no luck.

Eddie slouches back to the table in defeat. Just stands there, staring down at the books.

And goddamn it, Steve thinks, now he’s invested.

“Hey. Munson,” he says in an undertone. “What’s up?”

He doesn’t miss the weird kind of double take Eddie gives him, but at least Steve knows it’s not because of his face being a mess this time—seriously, drawing looks from students when all he wanted was to get in line for crappy cafeteria pizza had not been fun.

“Nothing,” Eddie says with a shrug, and he flashes another wide smile that makes Steve think bullshit. “Apparently I racked up a mountain of late fees. Who knew?” He sighs, glancing at his wristwatch. “Guess I’ve got enough time to just read the—oh. Um. Hey?”

“These books?” Steve confirms, having already stood up to look at them.

Eddie blinks a few times. “Yeah, these—uh, Harrington, what the fuck do you think you’re—?”

Steve heads over to the front desk with the books. It’s not all that difficult of a decision to make; he remembers Tommy H had his own library late fees in freshman year, but got nothing more than a simpering, “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, sweetie,” just because his mom knew someone on the school board.

“For checking out, please,” Steve says, not bothering with a smile as he hands over his library card.

The only resistance he gets is a raised eyebrow from the librarian before all the books are stamped.

“What the fuck,” Eddie says, voice flat; he doesn’t take the books when Steve tries to give them to him, so Steve just shrugs and goes back to his seat, sets the books pointedly on the edge of the table.

“Look, man, it’s up to you, but I’m not gonna take them. They’ll just be sitting here.”

Eddie huffs. He goes over to the books, his hand twitching towards them before drawing back, like he’s at war with himself.

“You—you didn’t have to do that,” he gets out as if it physically pains him to do so.

Prickly, Steve thinks.

“It’s no big deal,” he says. “My account’s gathering dust, so someone might as well get the good of it.”

At hearing that, Eddie looks a little less defensive. He chews on his lips for a few seconds, then says, his tone serious, “Harrington, I’ll—I’ll forget. Like, with the holidays… like, I guarantee you, even if I write a million fucking reminders, I’m gonna take these books and forget to bring ‘em back for months.”

“Oh, no,” Steve says dryly, “lemme go alert the press, I just heard a blatant confession to a crime. Dude, just take them, what do I care if your homework takes you months to—”

“It’s not even for school,” Eddie interrupts through gritted teeth, “it’s dumb, it’s just—”

“Jesus Christ. Lemme call the press again, sounds like you’re reading a book for fun.”

Eddie stares at him. Steve raises an eyebrow in challenge—he could do this all day; just the other week, he’d beaten Mike in a brutal staring contest that felt like it went on for hours.

Eddie breaks first. “Fine,” he says with another huff, but he’s less agitated when handling the books—lingers thoughtfully on their titles, puts a couple in his backpack. The rest he opens at seemingly random parts, but it looks like he knows what he’s searching for.

And then it seems as if he’s just going to pick up the remaining books and walk away—Steve expects him to, honestly—but he ends up staying where he is, gives Steve a look of consideration, almost like he’s a book worth reading, too.

“You stole my table, you know?” Eddie says.

“Uh, no,” Steve says automatically, then adds with more confidence, “I was definitely here first.”

Eddie snorts. “Nope. My senior year, uh,” he shrugs self-deprecatingly, “the first time around. That was my spot. Was pretty possessive over it too, think I signed the table, like, underneath.”

Steve’s eyebrows rise in interest; he runs a finger along the underside of the table and soon feels it: an E.M scratched into the wood.

“Huh,” he says. “Guess you’re right.”

A pause.

And then Steve surprises himself.

“There’s, um, room here, if you want? I’m not gonna use the whole table.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. There’s a long enough silence in which Steve considers just telling him to forget about it, but then—

Eddie sits down opposite him.

It’s not as awkward as Steve was expecting: Eddie seems focused enough on his books, on bringing out a battered looking journal with sheets of paper that look like they’re hanging on by a thread. He roots around his backpack some more, retrieves a ballpoint pen with a quiet, triumphant, “Aha!”

He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Steve isn’t even making an attempt to look busy; his own side of the table is bare.

“Didn’t know you were left-handed,” Steve says after a moment.

Eddie looks up from his note-taking. He smirks, waggles his eyebrows briefly. “Fitting, huh? Spooky.”

“Oh, I’m terrified.”

And Eddie actually laughs—hushed, but it still counts as one.

He soon returns to being absorbed in whatever it is he’s writing, which means Steve has less of a distraction when the familiar wave of tiredness washes over him.

He tries to sit up as well as he can, conscious of the fact that he’s not alone, but the radiator is the perfect temperature, and the steady scratch of Eddie’s pen has a soporific effect. He’s distantly aware of the fact that his head is nodding down with dwindling energy to try and stop it—hears Eddie’s voice, as if from very far away, rising in question.

Steve sniffs sharply, jerks his head back up and blinks hard. “What?”

“Oh, sorry,” Eddie says quickly, and he sounds genuine. “Didn’t know you were sleeping.”

“I wasn’t,” Steve says.

“Uh, okay,” Eddie says. His lips twitch. “That was an awfully long blink then, Harrington.”

“Shut up,” Steve retorts mildly. He stretches slightly, hides a yawn behind his hand. “Did you actually want something or—”

“Nah, wasn’t important.”

Steve frowns, unconvinced. The side of Eddie’s left hand is covered in ink, and Steve can see where his pen has started to die on him as his writing gets more faded across the page.

Steve puts a hand in his pocket, brings out another ballpoint and throws it at Eddie.

The pen bounces along the table, and Eddie manages to catch it one-handed.

“Good catch,” Steve says.

“Thanks,” Eddie says. He sounds almost uncertain.

Silence falls. It only takes another minute or two of hearing Eddie writing away for Steve’s determination to stay awake to waver again. He slumps forward with a mumbled, “M’just gonna…” and lays his head down.

Eddie stops writing.

“Hey, man, are you… okay? Like, if you feel… if you wanna go home I could take you to the nurse? Or—”

“I’m fine,” Steve says into his folded arms. “S’just… the aftermath of… stuff. No big deal.”

“Oh?” Eddie says tentatively.

Steve lifts his head up a bit, squints dubiously. “C’mon, Munson. You must’ve heard the rumour mill.”

Billy Hargrove had spread it all over the school, how he had ‘taught King Steve a lesson.’ In all honesty, Steve hadn’t cared all that much about how he himself came across in whatever story Billy created, was just relieved that at least Max and Lucas’s names had been kept out of it.

“I don’t put much stock in rumours,” Eddie says carefully. “Folks can say… all kindsa things.”

Steve nods faintly. Fair point.

“Okay, but you can take a little bit of stock in this one. Like, a smidge.”

Steve demonstrates with his thumb and forefinger.

It’s only when Eddie doesn’t smile in response that Steve realises he’d been hoping to make him laugh again. Maybe.

“Huh. Well. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Steve says tiredly.

“Harrington. I’m not stupid, y’know? That was more than a… a stupid fight after school or something. Like, I can remember what your face looked like.”

“Gee, thanks.” Steve sets his head back down, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t—I just meant whatever it was, it… it went too far. Way too fucking far.”

Steve yawns again, doesn’t bother hiding it. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He’s resigning himself to the thought of waking up with a stiff neck before Eddie sighs and says, “If you’re gonna sleep, Harrington, don’t be an amateur about it.”

Steve looks up in time to see Eddie reaching underneath the table with one leg, hooking his ankle round the empty chair next to Steve and shoving it closer to him.

“Three or four’s probably the best amount for stretching out on,” Eddie says. “Uh, speaking from experience.”

Steve smiles. “Noted.”

He manoeuvres himself until he’s lying much more comfortably across the seats, using his backpack and coat as a pillow.

Frustratingly but predictably, despite his fatigue, sleep doesn’t come easily, so Steve looks underneath the table and asks, “What’re you writing about, Munson?”

He can see Eddie’s boots, how one foot is tapping away, as if in time to a song no-one else can hear.

“Um, I was just… getting inspiration for… it’s kinda like. Like a story, but—”

“Don’t hurt yourself, dude,” Steve says, “I know what a campaign is.”

The foot tapping stops.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?” Eddie says.

He sounds a bit far away again, though Steve knows that’s just in his head; he can feel his eyelids drooping.

“You’ve got…” He sighs, voice trailing off as he finishes, “No idea…”

Eddie launches into a speech; Steve can follow it well enough for a little while, Eddie rambling about the kind of decisions he thinks his players will make in the game, but eventually the words become a blur, and he drifts off just like that, into an unexpectedly peaceful sleep.

He wakes with the lightest of touches to his shoulder, a soft, “Steve?” that nevertheless makes him jolt to full alertness in a blink, reaching for a bat he doesn’t currently have.

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie yelps, almost falling back against the table. “What the hell kinda military training d’you have, Harrington?”

“Just have good reflexes,” Steve says, hopes it sounds casual enough as he breathes through his suddenly racing heart.

“Yeah, that’s one way to fucking put it. Anyway, uh. Sorry, didn’t mean to, like, startle you, but you slept right through the bell, man.”

Steve sits up; the library is empty apart from them, the librarian shooting them a not so subtle glare. And he realises that while everyone else was rushing out of school, eager for the holidays to start, Eddie must’ve stayed. Waited for him.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, quickly puts on his coat.

“God, sorry, you didn’t have to—if I’ve made you late, I’m—”

“Nah, don’t sweat it.” Eddie puts his backpack strap across one shoulder. “I wasn’t in a hurry. Um, are you… like, good to drive? I can give you a ride, if—”

“I’m okay,” Steve says, struck by the consideration behind the offer. He means what he says though; he feels pleasantly refreshed. He smiles self-effacingly. “Think I need one class where I can just sleep, and then I’ll get through the day.”

Eddie gives a playful scoff. “That’s already a thing, Harrington, it’s called first period.”

They walk out of the library together, and Steve finds that it’s kind of… nice, honestly. He keeps waiting for some awkwardness to creep in again, but it never does.

“Big holiday plans?” Eddie asks, smalltalk that should be stilted, but it just sounds like he’s sincerely interested in the answer.

Steve shrugs. “Not really. Oh, I’ve got—you know the Snow Ball thing tomorrow, at the middle school? There’s this kid I know, I’m gonna give him a ride there, but—”

Steve breaks off with a fond shake of the head, knowing that there’s this kid I know doesn’t really give it justice, doesn’t say the full truth: that Dustin Henderson has somehow wormed his way into Steve’s goddamn heart forever.

“His mom’s invited me over for dinner tonight,” he continues. “Think he wants, like, a dress-rehearsal of his outfit or something, which is probably the closest he’ll ever come to admitting he’s nervous. I kinda feel for him, honestly. God, do you remember being thirteen? Everything seemed to matter so much, and most of it was just… stupid shit.”

They’ve reached the parking lot, and Eddie gives Steve a sideways look with a bemused smile.

“Woah, Harrington, we’re still in school, remember? Don’t think we’re meant to sound so world-weary yet.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah.” He gestures at Eddie’s get-up. “Bet you’ve never once cared about the stupid shit, though.”

What people think.

Eddie’s smile turns more knowing. “Shockingly, Harrington,” he says, “I didn’t come out the womb like this.”

They both hesitate; they’re at Steve’s car now, Eddie’s van parked in a space that’s further away. There’s no reason, really, for the conversation to continue any longer.

But Eddie still lingers.

“Uh, enjoy your dinner, I guess. If the… dress-rehearsal goes shit, just tell the kid it’s good luck for the real night.”

Steve laughs. “He’s in the Drama Club, so that might work, actually. Thanks, Munson.” He opens the car door as Eddie nods, starts to head off to his van. Seized by a sudden impulse, Steve calls, “Happy holidays!”

“Yeah, you too.” Eddie turns, tapping at his temple exaggeratedly. “Won’t forget about the books, I promise.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You better not,” he says, tongue-in-cheek.

He starts the car and heads for Dustin’s house, honks the horn when he drives past Eddie’s van, catches Eddie waving.

Steve thinks he quite likes the idea (regardless of whether it’ll put his library account in jeopardy), of the books finding a permanent home at Eddie’s place. Briefly imagines Eddie writing with an ink-stained hand, curled up safely in a world of his own—where the only monsters are the ones that live in between the pages.

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eddiewmunson · 1 year

Text

Steve watches as Eddie drops the shield clumsily, just lets it fall into the grass. His hand—it’s not shaking, exactly, but there’s a delay to everything, to the way his fingers curl, like even the smallest movement takes so much effort.

Steve knows the feeling: when the whole world feels like wading through molasses.

Eddie comes to sit next to him, thunks the back of his head against the RV and winces. “Ow.”

Steve smiles. “We’ve got time, y’know.”

Eddie gives him a blank look. The shadows under his eyes are practically sunken in. “Time?”

Steve gestures out to the distance, where the kids are still playing, where Nancy and Robin are re-counting the supplies he’d noted down earlier. “Reckon you’ve got an hour or so, if you wanna get your head down.”

Eddie snorts. “Ah, sleep,” he says, with a wry smile. “What’s that?”

“Come on, man,” Steve says. “Gotta take any opportunity you can. Don’t want you collapsing before we flambé Vecna.”

Eddie mouths Vecna to himself a couple of times, blows out a breath. “God, my life… my life is fucking crazy.”

Steve chuckles slightly. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“You’re used to all of this shit, though. Lemme guess, you can sleep just like that?”

“Hmm, not always,” Steve says, which… well, Eddie doesn’t know enough, he reasons, to realise just what an understatement that is.

Eddie sighs again. He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the RV—doesn’t look comfortable at all.

Steve moves closer, gently nudges Eddie’s foot with his own. “Hey.”

Eddie’s eyes open with prolonged, heavy blinks. “Hmm?”

Steve pats his shoulder in invitation. Eddie lets out an exhausted laugh. “Oh, my life just got even crazier.”

“What? It’s a perfectly good shoulder, dude, I dunno what to tell you.” Steve grins when Eddie keeps laughing. “It’s not bony or anything.”

“That so?” Eddie says, rubs at his eyes with a lingering smile. “You got good reviews?”

“Glowing. Five stars.”

Steve thinks about all the times he’s been a pillow for Robin or Dustin—Max, too, on the seldom few times he’s wheedled until she just took a damn nap, even if it was only for ten minutes.

He taps his shoulder again, goes quiet, more serious. “You’re dog-tired, Eddie. Come on, just ten minutes. Then you can trash my stupid shoulder all you want.”

Eddie just looks at him, considering. Then he huffs, glances upwards as if to say Fine, you win. “You drive a hard bargain, Harrington.”

And with some hesitancy, he tips his head down to the side and settles on Steve’s shoulder.

He’s tense still; Steve can feel it.

“Y’know, one of the best naps I ever had was ‘cause of you,” Steve says conversationally.

Eddie makes a disbelieving noise.

“It’s true. Uh, Winter ‘84, the period just after lunch, I think? Damn, can’t even remember what class it… Anyway, you were giving the teacher shit ‘cause of some test result, you just kept going, it was incredible. No work got done; I just put my head on my desk and slept, and no-one even noticed.”

Eddie chuckles, slumps a little more. “That’s…” And he yawns. “That’s depressing, man. You saying me going on and on was relaxing?”

“Yeah, like one of those meditation tapes. Except, uh, more aggressive.”

Steve feels more than sees Eddie smile. “You’re so dumb.” He hums tiredly, his head resting heavier and heavier on Steve’s shoulder. Voice small, he says, “Keep talking?”

So Steve does.

He keeps up a constant, one-sided conversation, speaking softly. Talks about what they’ll all do after this—mostly nothing, because everyone deserves a goddamn extended Spring Break, he’s decided.

And Eddie sleeps. He doesn’t twitch like Robin, and his head doesn’t nod forward like Dustin—like he’s reached such a level of fatigue that he can only be still. His breathing is deep and heavy in a way that Steve knows only comes from a rare, utterly dreamless sleep.

Steve just sits there for way more than an hour, doesn’t care when his back begins to protest at how unmoving he is. It’s only as the sun begins to set, as the group just begins to head back to the RV, when he reluctantly nudges Eddie.

“Hey. Hey, Eddie. Sorry. Time to get up.”

Eddie mumbles something, barely lifts his head before returning it to Steve’s shoulder. “Hmm… five more minutes?”

Steve sighs through a little laugh. Feels suddenly emotional for reasons he can’t fully explain. God, I wanna give you forever.

“Sure, yeah. Five minutes.”

But Eddie rouses after just a minute or two. Sits up and stretches. His eyes look a little brighter, his face no longer quite as grey.

“You were right, man,” he says lightly, gives Steve’s shoulder an endearing little pat. “It’s a nice shoulder. Gotta take good care of that.”

And his hand lingers there, holds on like he did when they were huddled round the Lite Brite. Like he’s saying Take care of yourself, instead.

Steve feels the warmth of Eddie’s hand as he shrugs. “You get first dibs on it, when this is over,” he says.

And he means Come back.

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